#two methods step by step

[royaltea000]

[wipinf] thinking bout that one part in jttw96 where nezha and hong hai er fight in a dream

[vaguely-concerned]

bellara and lucanis planning out how they're going to break it to the rest of the team that they're officially all banished from the kitchen they're thinking of gently suggesting implementing a two-person cooking rotation, with all the meticulousness and somberness of forethought of entering serious contract negotiations. (and when they get around to it the others mostly just say yay! praise the maker! we are saved from the seemingly ever-expanding horrors of fereldan cooking! and other things of this nature.) wholesome moments in the neurodivergent support group out here in arlathan forest today

[rawliverandgoronspice]

tbh, and that's just my two cents, I think that when we leave our little corner of ganonfans and try to bring out concerns to the larger Outside World trying to convince other people, it's a little more useful at large to center criticisms of Zelda and its narrative outside of what canon states (so in "doylist terms", tho I don't really like that separation but it might be easier to understand), because most of the content that criticizes Hyrule within the games is subtextual and neutered at best (not something meant to be picked up by their core audience of "children who do not come from an oppressed background"), and also because it would be soooo super easy for Nintendo to say "no we never meant any of that in any way :>", which would effectively slam the conversation shut for many people who were skeptical to begin with.

While it's extremely easy to say "no of course Nintendo would never want their good guys to come from a genocidal nation, so they obviously don't", which sounds like a coherent argument, it becomes wayyy harder to brush off the whole "Nintendo chose to repeatedly uphold the exceptional perfection of a white nation whose ruling class comes from a divine birthline while demonizing the only evil men from the explicitely arab-inspired culture, leaving the rest of their women to grovel in eternal apologies and convert to the dominant religion in order to prove the depth of their remorse" without starting to spew out bullshit arguments that fall apart at the first brush of scrutiny or reveal their own racism in the process.

I'm not saying there *aren't* hyrulean genocidal strikes within the canon itself, because there obviously are, but I'd say that to even begin to be willing to see them, you need first to admit the entire Zelda narrative has concerning priorities when it comes to the framing of the events taking place in its lore, or the need to even touch such topics to begin with, that it has concerning echoes to real life history, and so there is a genuine need to challenge that framing at all.

[meezer]

who on earth would have thought I would put mean gay prof's class on top of my academic priorities. LOL. in his and my defense he's been considerably less mean this semester and he's put his trust in me several times and shown disappointment when I specifically don't do the reading.

[swagging-back-to]

im actually floored by how well the girls are getting along. they're all running on the wheel together and just napping. they are literally so chill together rn it's insane

[reasonsforhope]

When self-described “ocean custodian” Boyan Slat took the stage at TED 2025 in Vancouver this week, he showed viewers a reality many of us are already heartbreakingly familiar with: There is a lot of trash in the ocean.

“If we allow current trends to continue, the amount of plastic that’s entering the ocean is actually set to double by 2060,” Slat said in his TED Talk, which will be published online at a later date. 

Plus, once plastic is in the ocean, it accumulates in “giant circular currents” called gyres, which Slat said operate a lot like the drain of the bathtub, meaning that plastic can enter these currents but cannot leave.

That’s how we get enormous build-ups like the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, a giant collection of plastic pollution in the ocean that is roughly twice the size of Texas.

As the founder and CEO of The Ocean Cleanup, Slat’s goal is to return our oceans to their original, clean state before 2040. To accomplish this, two things must be done.

First: Stop more plastic from entering the ocean. Second: Clean up the “legacy” pollution that is already out there and doesn’t go away by itself.

And Slat is well on his way.

Pictured: Kingston Harbour in Jamaica. Photo courtesy of The Ocean Cleanup Project

When Slat’s first TEDx Talk went viral in 2012, he was able to organize research teams to create the first-ever map of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. From there, they created a technology to collect plastic from the most garbage-heavy areas in the ocean.

“We imagined a very long, u-shaped barrier … that would be pushed by wind and waves,” Slat explained in his Talk. 

This barrier would act as a funnel to collect garbage and be emptied out for recycling. 

But there was a problem.

“We took it out in the ocean, and deployed it, and it didn’t collect plastic,” Slat said, “which is a pretty important requirement for an ocean cleanup system.”

Soon after, this first system broke into two. But a few days later, his team was already back to the drawing board. 

From here, they added vessels that would tow the system forward, allowing it to sweep a larger area and move more methodically through the water. Mesh attached to the barrier would gather plastic and guide it to a retention area, where it would be extracted and loaded onto a ship for sorting, processing, and recycling. 

It worked. 

“For 60 years, humanity had been putting plastic into the ocean, but from that day onwards, we were also taking it back out again,” Slat said, with a video of the technology in action playing on screen behind him.

To applause, he said: “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, honestly.”

Over the years, Ocean Cleanup has scaled up this cleanup barrier, now measuring almost 2.5 kilometers — or about 1.5 miles — in length. And it cleans up an area of the ocean the size of a football field every five seconds.

Pictured: The Ocean Cleanup's System 002 deployed in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. Photo courtesy of The Ocean Cleanup

The system is designed to be safe for marine life, and once plastic is brought to land, it is recycled into new products, like sunglasses, accessories for electric vehicles, and even Coldplay’s latest vinyl record, according to Slat. 

These products fund the continuation of the cleanup. The next step of the project is to use drones to target areas of the ocean that have the highest plastic concentration. 

In September 2024, Ocean Cleanup predicted the Patch would be cleaned up within 10 years. 

However, on April 8, Slat estimated “that this fleet of systems can clean up the Great Pacific Garbage Patch in as little as five years’ time.”

With ongoing support from MCS, a Netherlands-based Nokia company, Ocean Cleanup can quickly scale its reliable, real-time data and video communication to best target the problem. 

It’s the largest ocean cleanup in history.

But what about the plastic pollution coming into the ocean through rivers across the world? Ocean Cleanup is working on that, too. 

To study plastic pollution in other waterways, Ocean Cleanup attached AI cameras to bridges, measuring the flow of trash in dozens of rivers around the world, creating the first global model to predict where plastic is entering oceans.

“We discovered: Just 1% of the world’s rivers are responsible for about 80% of the plastic entering our oceans,” Slat said.

His team found that coastal cities in middle-income countries were primarily responsible, as people living in these areas have enough wealth to buy things packaged in plastic, but governments can’t afford robust waste management infrastructure. 

Ocean Cleanup now tackles those 1% of rivers to capture the plastic before it reaches oceans.

Pictured: Interceptor 007 in Los Angeles. Photo courtesy of The Ocean Cleanup

“It’s not a replacement for the slow but important work that’s being done to fix a broken system upstream,” Slat said. “But we believe that tackling this 1% of rivers provides us with the only way to rapidly close the gap.”

To clean up plastic waste in rivers, Ocean Cleanup has implemented technology called “interceptors,” which include solar-powered trash collectors and mobile systems in eight countries worldwide.

In Guatemala, an interceptor captured 1.4 million kilograms (or over 3 million pounds) of trash in under two hours. Now, this kind of collection happens up to three times a week.

“All of that would have ended up in the sea,” Slat said.

Now, interceptors are being brought to 30 cities around the world, targeting waterways that bring the most trash into our oceans. GPS trackers also mimic the flow of the plastic to help strategically deploy the systems for the most impact.

“We can already stop up to one-third of all the plastic entering our oceans once these are deployed,” Slat said.

And as soon as he finished his Talk on the TED stage, Slat was told that TED’s Audacious Project would be funding the deployment of Ocean Cleanup’s efforts in those 30 cities as part of the organization’s next cohort of grantees. 

While it is unclear how much support Ocean Cleanup will receive from the Audacious Project, Head of TED Chris Anderson told Slat: “We’re inspired. We’re determined in this community to raise the money you need to make that 30-city project happen.”

And Slat himself is determined to clean the oceans for good.

“For humanity to thrive, we need to be optimistic about the future,” Slat said, closing out his Talk.

“Once the oceans are clean again, it can be this example of how, through hard work and ingenuity, we can solve the big problems of our time.”

-via GoodGoodGood, April 9, 2025

[kkusuka]

this is in the "141 and john price's wife" universe. still gn pronouns. i also don't think price texts that much- old man syndrome.

the 141 absolutely have a group chat dedicated to pictures and information (porn) about their little wife.

it starts, as many silly things do, with johnny and a picture of you asleep on the couch. cuddled into the armrest covered in the tortilla blanket he'd gotten you as a gag gift, and it was just too good not to share. (although he only sent one of the thirty he actually took, he's gotta keep as much of you to himself as he can.)

then it was kyle with you in the yard, laying in the grass after cutting down branches in the sweltering heat (something john would never let you do if he'd know about it, but he appreciates the flush of your cheeks and the angle of the photo makes it seem as if you were under him doing another strenuous activity.)

and it continues like that for months, cute little pictures of you gardening with price, walking with simon, watching tv between kyle and johnny- just sharing the daily life of their pretty bird.

but the real nature of the group chat doesn’t start until simon sends a picture of you bent over, putting something in the oven, in the tiny, red daisy duke shorts that are only just long enough to be considered inappropriate for the public.

sr: fuckin' lucky that shit only takes 10 minutes to cook or we'd be in the kitchen all day.

soap: fuuuuuuuuckin' hell

kyle: don't rub it in simon, we'll be home in two days

sr: don't worry, i'll warm 'em up for you

price: Behave yourselves.

and it all just unravels from there.

john's the next culprit. he has loads and loads of less than decent pictures of you, perks of being the first husband, but he's not reaching into the stash for this one. he has a point to make: if anyone's getting off to pictures of his wife, he's gonna be the one sending them.

it's barely two hours after the other three left that something is sent into the chat. face down, ass up, cunt dripping with cum as price uses his thumb to keep your pussy open to the camera, the rest of his hand palm down on your ass, the ring on his finger glistening in the flash.

sr: fuckin' filthy captain

soap: BRING ME BACK, PUT ME IN CAPTAIN

kyle: tell 'em i said thank you

it's not surprising that the minute he comes back, johnny's on you. methodically placing the camera, making sure it captures all of you and his face buried between your thighs. it wasn't the first video sent into the chat but it's definitely one of the best ones.

your head thrown back, hands in his hair, gripping what you can so you can grind your pussy on his tongue. his phone is just close enough to hear your small pants and groans as he sucks on your swollen clit.

soap: i could spend the rest of my life right there

sr: you let 'em fuck yer face like that?

soap: lt i'd let 'em gag me

soap: then step on my dick

soap: then leave me on the floor to rot

*kyle, price, and sr disliked three messages*

soap: like you fuckers wouldn't

and kyle is not a man to be left out, but he is also not as keen on sharing his private time with you as johnny is. so there aren't videos coming from him, instead he has 4k close ups of your tits after he spent almost an hour sucking hickeys into every part of your chest he could reach.

and kyle is like an artist, he makes sure your hair is splayed out perfectly, and that you're just fucked out enough to give him a bright smile. he also makes sure that the locket they gave you, the one that's has their names engraved on the inside, sits perfectly above the swell of your boobs. and goddamn is he proud of his pictures. (it's not hard for you to look pretty in pictures because you're already pretty but kyle thinks he's the best at actually capturing it).

soap: another two things i would put my face between until i suffocate

*sr, price, and kyle disliked a message*

soap: go fuck urselves

and simon is just mean, fingers peaking under your panties, finding your clit just to sit there, finger pressed on your bud, only moving for a few seconds before falling still again; his other hand hold your hips down so you can't do anything but wait for him to move again. and he does it the entire length of the manchester game until your panties are completely soaked through.

soap: stone cold, lt. stone cold.

but before he can do anything, he has to take his picture so the other fools can remember what a whore you are for him. and because it's between games he'll let you sit on his dick and grind into him during commercial breaks. maybe he'll even film in and send it to the guys, let them see you drip all over his lap whole stretching to fit him in your cunt.

but whether his team loses or wins, he'll flip you over and fuck you into the couch cushions, so at least you get that!

then they're all away on a mission, and you know about their little chat (it's hard not to when suddenly they have a camera out every time you're in their vicinity.) so you take it upon yourself to give them their fix. and why not play around with them well you're ar it?

it starts when you go shopping merely three days after they left. they tear up your bras and underwear so obviously you would need to buy more eventually. but usually when you go shopping one of them is with you to share their opinions, but since they're away, you just have to send pictures instead!

a whole catalog, in facts. you've got angles, dressing room lighting, and a whole lot of time on your hands.

*you sent 22 photos to 'the bird house'*

you: i can't choose :(((

you: help me out?

kyle: give me 6 hours to fly home and i'll help you with anything

price: Looks great. But I can't tell from the pictures, you'll have to try them all on again when I get home.

soap: licking the screen isn't working, captain i think i need to go home.

*sr saved 22 photos to Camera Roll*

kyle: smooth riley, real smooth.

and of course it doesn't end there. you have a chance to torture them a little bit with zero consequences and you're going to take it.

but it takes a while for you to send videos, usually you send  your outfits, or the tiny bathing suit top you wear while tanning, even one of you in the kitchen in nothing but your tiny apron. (it's the only one that john does not appreciate, popping a boner between briefings as a captain is not hie proudest moment.)

but as the months go longer and longer, you get more and more desperate. your toys are reserved for times like this, a small bullet vibrator and a thick 8-inch dildo. it's nowhere near as nice as fucking your men but it'll have to do for the time being.

and you know them being away is not their fault and they'd be home in an instant if they could choose to be; but if you have to deal with your pent-upness, so do they.

so you set up your phone, leaning it on the lamp that sits on your bedside table, so it captures your entire body, covered only by sheer light-blue lingerie and your locket, as you sink down the length of your dildo, vibrator pressed to your clit. you send four different videos, one for each of them, in the order they came into your life (you think it's cute, they're one picture away from firebombing the whole country they're in and flying home).

you: just something to hold you over until you get back!

kyle: so good for us babe.

soap: yer evil bonnie.

soap: my arm can't keep up with this

sr: birdie thinks it's real funny now

you: i do

sr: not gonna be so funny when we get home, yeah? might have to give you a refresher about what happens teasing birds.

price: 6:30am tomorrow, get everything you need in order because you aren't moving for the foreseeable future.

*you loved a message*

[stigmatacunnilingus]

i think next year im gonna have to actually tackle my mental health problems

[bloomingsalma]

currently testing out diff study methods to see which one I like the most and idk how I'm feeling about the SQ3R method... I often feel unmotivated to do the recite and review steps once I'm done fully reading the content

[whoevenisjavier]

a prize i’d cheat to win

pairing: CEO harry castillo x exec. assistant f! reader

summary: you fuck your married boss during a late night at the office.

part 2 here

a/n: so… this is like… heavy cheating stuff. if that’s not your thing, then best to stop now

tags/warning: +18, mdni. harry castillo is 48, reader is 25. age gap. cheating. f!reader. partners dissing. oral sex (f! and m! receiving). unprotected piv. creampie.

w/c: 9k

Harry Castillo takes many things in life very seriously.

That’s an essential trait when you're sitting in the executive chair of one of the largest construction companies in the United States: being sharp, meticulous, and systematic is as mandatory as a contractual clause imposing penalties for breach.

But there are two things Harry is even more serious and methodical about.

The first: every single one of Harry’s suits is custom-made by the son of the same tailor who once dressed his father and grandfather. Even if a ready-to-wear suit fits him perfectly, it must go to the tailor, even if it’s just to add a single stitch to the inside pocket.

The second: his wife must receive a gift on every single occasion that concerns her or their relationship.

You keep a calendar on your computer solely for this purpose. Her birthday on June 17th, their first kiss anniversary, the day he asked her out, their official anniversary, the day he proposed, their wedding anniversary, Dalilah the Poodle’s birthday.

Yes, there's even an anniversary for the first time they slept together, on September 19th.

And on all these dates, a gift must be sent to her, signed from Harry. If not, she’ll make his life a living hell, and he’ll spiral into one of those gloomy funks for at least three days: always polite, but with short answers and a stone-cold expression. And you hate seeing him like that.

Despite your color-coded calendars and hyper-organized schedule, it did happen once, but only because you didn’t know there was an anniversary for the first time Harry said “I love you,” which didn’t happen until February 15th, 2020, even though he proposed back on October 28th, 2019. Ever since, you make sure that expensive gifts are sent either to their apartment or to her law office.

Today is the anniversary of their first fight, and you're at your desk choosing between a bouquet from The Bouqs Co. and a pair of sapphire Spinelli earrings. Or maybe both?

The elevator doors open and Harry steps out, immaculately dressed in a navy suit you bought last week. He's on the phone and looks stressed. You raise your hand to greet him, and the tension in his face softens into a small smile, which is his version of “good morning.”

He walks past you into his office, leaving the door open, which means he’ll be back in a moment to give you a proper hello.

Harry Castillo’s office is on the top floor of the Castillo Construction & Co. headquarters. Behind your desk, the company’s initials — CCC — are elegantly embossed in gold on the wall. The reception décor is all rich, dark wood — on the wall panels, desks, and on the frames of the chairs in the waiting area. Gold details on the picture frames, doorknobs, and desk edges offer a refined contrast.

It’s beautiful, but a bit dull, so last year, you convinced him to add two dragon trees near the elevator. They gave the space a touch of life, even if he insisted he didn’t like plants in the office.

In the end, he liked it. You know he did.

Being Harry’s executive assistant for the past four years, since you were a twenty-one-year-old fresh out of college, means you sometimes read him better than you read yourself. Your therapist says that’s not healthy, but you like knowing his routine, especially because you’re the one who plans it. You like being his emergency contact, having access to his passwords and bank accounts, being his legal proxy with signing authority.

So, personally, you think your therapist is mistaken.

Ten minutes later, as you confirm your choice of the Spinelli earrings with Harry’s personal shopper, your boss reemerges from his office.

He’s taken off the blazer, and his white shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing his expensive watch and strong forearms.

“Good morning,” he says with a small smile, leaning casually against your desk. “Did you have a good weekend?”

And here comes the inevitable truth: you are terribly attracted to Harry, which cannot be healthy. Having feelings for your boss, who gives you tasks and commands, kills any remaining instinct for self-preservation.

But God, how could you not? Everything about him pulls you in. The physical traits, the personality, the mind. His strong arms, neatly trimmed beard and mustache, kind brown eyes, tailored clothes, manners, scent, intelligence.

Just the other day, Harry mentally calculated the average profit margin Castillo & Co. made over a five-year period because the financial report hadn’t included it, and then estimated the net return percentage; all in his head. It was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve thought of him while with your boyfriend, fully aware of how wrong that is.

“Good morning, Harry.” That’s another privilege: calling him by his first name, while everyone else calls him Mr. Castillo. “I finished watching Russian Doll on Saturday.”

“Yeah? Did you like it?”

You nod, excited.

“Yes, it’s great. You have to finish it.”

Harry gives a quiet grunt.

“I know… But I get home and just crash,” he says, clearly disappointed with himself. You offer an empathetic smile. “I’ll try harder,” he adds, before shifting topics. “I have a meeting at eleven. Can you come with me?”

“Just a moment.”

You open your planner while Harry watches, and you try your best to focus on the color-coded blocks. You have a meeting with the finance team to review some items for Harry, but you can reschedule.

“I can go.”

“Thank God. I’ll need your notes.”

You tap your fingers against your forehead in a playful salute, and Harry smiles before turning to head back to his office. But before he does, he says:

“I like the outfit. Gray is my favorite color.”

He’s referring to your gray pencil skirt and matching halter-style silk blouse.

“Thank you. And I know.”

He smiles, taps his fingers lightly on your desk again, and heads back inside.

And now you can’t focus on anything else on your morning agenda.

The eleven o’clock meeting is at the headquarters of a partner company just a few minutes from Castillo & Co.’s office. Already in the building’s lobby, Harry walks calmly beside you as you head toward the elevator. You’re carrying the leather folder with your iPad and a notepad for Harry, who insists on handwritten notes.

“Did you see how many plants are in the lobby?” you ask as you both stop in front of the elevator, side by side. His security guard stands just behind you, discreet but alert.

“Don’t start,” Harry replies without taking his eyes off the elevator doors. It’s always curious how his expression changes when you’re in public. “You already put two plants on our floor.”

You find it incredibly endearing when he says “our floor.”

“It’s not enough. I’m still planning to sneak one into your office.”

The elevator doors slide open and you both step in. Harry presses the button for the twentieth floor, and you lean against the glass wall at the back of the elevator as he leans in to whisper:

“And then you’ll swing by HR to pick up your termination letter.”

By the time you reach the twentieth floor, where the meeting will take place, there’s still a slight smirk tugging at your lips.

The receptionist at the main desk takes one look at Harry and immediately stands, adopting a posture you’ve come to recognize as reserved only for partners and high-level associates. You yourself soften your voice and demeanor as part of this same executive persona.

You and Harry are led down a long, white hallway with the sterile atmosphere of a hospital (which you hate) until you reach the meeting room. Harry lets you enter first, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back to guide you in.

Inside the glass-walled boardroom, seated at an oval table, are five men and two women. All eyes turn to you, but quickly shift to Harry as he enters the room, already unbuttoning his jacket.

“Please, don’t get up,” Harry says right away, raising his hand palm-out as if to stop them from standing to greet him. Harry hates shaking hands with that many people. “Don’t mind me,” he adds, scanning the room for a free chair. Only one is available. “We’ll need one more chair. I brought my vice president with me.”

Harry is ridiculous. He always introduces you as his “vice president” in meetings like this because, for some reason, if he says “assistant,” the respect people show you is just surface-level, barely polite enough to keep Harry from getting angry. Bunch of assholes.

Someone quickly slips out to fetch an extra chair, but in the meantime, Harry’s hand returns to the small of your back, guiding you to the only available seat at the head of the table, all eyes in the room following the two of you.

Realizing what he’s doing, you whisper:

“Harry, I’m not—”

“Sit,” he cuts you off with just one word, and it leaves no room for argument.

You obey, sitting in the only chair, while Harry stands behind you. With no other option, you slide into your businesswoman persona, straighten your spine, lace your fingers on the table, and meet the stares of the executives around you.

Moments later, someone wheels in another chair for Harry, placing it beside you.

The room falls silent until Harry, now seated and relaxed, says simply:

“So?”

And the show begins.

The goal of the meeting is to convince Harry to invest in the revitalization of a hotel in Madrid, Spain, currently owned by a chain undergoing judicial reorganization. Their last hope is to reopen the hotel, which has been closed for the past ten years, and Harry’s investment would signal a vote of confidence, seen as there’s no guarantee of return for Castillo & Co.

The chain’s administrator, a short man in a tight suit, is in the middle of a PowerPoint presentation showing 3D renderings of the hotel lobby, complete with bronze detailing, when Harry lets out a dramatic sigh and raises his hand.

The man immediately falls silent.

“It’s a good presentation,” Harry says, and you pause your note-taking on the iPad. “But this isn’t what I came to see. Honestly, I’m not the one you should be showing pictures of architecture and interior design to.”

The silence is so tense you could hear a pin drop.

“So far, not a single reason has been presented to me that justifies why CCC should invest in the Madrid hotel,” Harry continues. “Has no one conducted a financial risk analysis? Or at the very least, looked at the average returns of similar hotel chains in the same area?”

“Mr. Castillo…”

“With all due respect, Mr. Edwards,” Harry cuts in again, “my question is simple: was such a study conducted?”

The administrator opens his mouth, likely to offer another flimsy excuse, but this time, one of the women at the table responds:

“Mr. Castillo, we will immediately arrange for a study addressing those questions.”

“You’re asking for more time?” Harry asks, his voice calm, not the slightest hint of aggression, yet somehow that calm makes it even more intimidating.

The woman, to her credit, is brave enough to admit:

“Yes, we are.”

You glance at Harry. He’s tapping his pen against the leather folder he hasn’t even opened. When he stops, it’s to let out a small sigh, as if being in that room is as irritating as a speck of dust in his eye.

“I started construction on a multi-business complex in Madrid last year, and had the bad luck of launching the first month of works right when construction costs in Spain hit a historic record. 117.6 points on the Eurostat index,” he sets the pen down and laces his fingers together, commanding the entire room with nothing but words. “Even with that spike, the real estate market in Madrid is growing,” he glances your way and says, “Miss?”

Of course you remember. You were the one who researched it.

“Seventeen-point-five percent increase last year alone, with a forecast of another four to five percent this year,” you say.

A flicker of pride crosses Harry’s face — but he stays impassive.

“Seventeen-point-five percent,” he repeats, whistling softly in admiration before turning his gaze back to the group. “That’s a lot. Could that offset the budget blowout we’ll likely face by the end of construction in three years? What I do know is that my contract with the buyers of the complex units includes ongoing monitoring of economic indicators and adjustment clauses, because the project team, who are very competent, accounted for all of that. And I only work with competent people.”

More silence.

Harry concludes:

“I expect a study of that level within one month. If you’re not able to deliver that, I kindly ask that you refrain from sending me any more investment proposals.”

Harry stands, and just like that, the meeting is over.

It’s past 7 p.m. when Harry steps out of his office and walks toward your desk.

Under the desk, you’ve already kicked off your heels, and your stocking-covered feet rest softly on the carpet. Your hair is tied up in a bun that probably looks tragic by now, but the kind smile Harry sends your way isn’t one of someone looking at a disaster.

Then again, his hair looks a little tousled too, like he’s run his fingers through it more times than he should’ve.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks, leaning on your desk. He sounds nothing like the man who tore through a room full of clowns earlier in the day.

“I need to go over the spreadsheet the finance team sent me.”

“They sent it late?”

“No. I’m reviewing it late,” you admit, lowering your voice to a whisper and leaning in like you’re telling him a secret. “But don’t tell my boss or he’ll fire me.”

Harry plays along, whispering back:

“A corporate scandal.”

The grin you flash him is ridiculous, and so is the flush that warms your cheeks.

“Still got a lot to do?” Harry asks. You nod regretfully. “Have you eaten?”

You shake your head.

“Alright. I’ll order dinner for both of us. The usual?”

The usual means the Lasagna della Mama Rosa from Piccola that he always gets on late nights like this.

“The usual. Thanks, Harry.”

He ignores your thanks, as always, and heads back to his office. Halfway there, still facing away from you, he asks:

“Want a ribeye? I’m about to beg for one.”

“Rare.”

You can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

“Obviously.”

Thirty minutes later, you go downstairs to pick up the food, paying with Harry’s card. When you return, you head straight into his office.

Harry is at his desk, eyes fixed on the screen. His tablet shows a few graphs, and beside it, his phone is on speaker. He’s talking to his wife, and you pretend not to hear as you walk to the lounge area in the corner of his office, where there’s a leather couch and a coffee table big enough to fit all the food he ordered.

You slip off your shoes before stepping onto the rug and kneel to unpack the takeout bags on the table.

“...because I told her we’d both go with them,” his wife says over the phone, sounding upset. “I can’t back out now.”

“The problem is that you confirmed without even asking me.”

“I thought, as your wife, I could make one tiny decision for the both of us.”

Your brows lift.

“That’s not the point,” Harry says, calm but clearly tired. “The point is you planned a two-week trip out of the country without consulting me. I can’t reschedule twenty meetings or delay fifty different deadlines tied to the 72 active builds I’m overseeing.”

You walk over to the minibar in the corner and grab two sparkling waters and a couple of glasses.

She fires back:

“You could at least try to spend more time with me.”

“You’re being irrational.”

“You drive me crazy!” she yells. “Always with your robotic tone, your charts, your stats. For God’s sake, can’t you be spontaneous for once in your life, Harry?”

You turn to Harry and start to gesture that you’ll leave him alone, but Harry points directly at the lounge area, more specifically, at the table, silently instructing you to go back and stay there.

“You knew who I was when you met me,” he says into the phone, still looking at you. “And I’m not saying that as an excuse for never changing. I’m saying that you need to think about my work before making impulsive decisions.”

She hangs up on him.

You quietly return to the seating area and sit down on the rug, feeling a bit awkward. Seconds later, Harry joins you, settling on the opposite side of the table.

“Smells good,” he says as if he hadn’t just been in a fight.

“Mhm,” you hum, staring at the lasagna in front of you. The smell of melted cheese makes your stomach grumble, but before picking up your fork, you murmur, “I should’ve asked if I could come in. Sorry for overhearing.”

Harry hands you the container with your steak and opens a bottle of water, pouring it into both glasses.

“You know the passwords to my cards and accounts, the backup clouds for the entire Castillo company. My life’s in your hands. It’s not like I have anything to hide from you.”

It’s so satisfying to hear that. Your therapist is going to have a field day.

“You don’t, but maybe your wife wouldn’t love sharing her privacy with your assistant,” you say, mostly because it’s the right thing to say — not because you believe it.

He shuts that down quickly.

“What about your boyfriend?”

“What about him?”

Harry looks up as he takes a bite of lasagna. You pick up your utensils too.

“Is he okay sharing you with me?”

Your hands freeze mid-motion.

“He…” your voice cracks, so you try again. “He knows how much I value my work.”

“Of course.”

The steak is perfectly cooked, tender and rare. To escape the sudden tension, you put on a little show, leaning back dramatically on the plush Nina Magon rug as you chew a piece of meat.

“This is the best steak in the world,” you mumble with your eyes closed. “I’d work overtime every day if this was the reward.”

Harry lets out a low, amused laugh.

“That good, huh? You’d give up sleep for it?”

You hold up a thumbs-up. His laugh grows.

“You should come in later tomorrow,” he says as you sit back up. “That’s me speaking as your boss.”

“I have an eight a.m. meeting.”

“With who?”

“The marketing team.” You already regret it just thinking about it. “Your personal branding, actually. Someone from Forbes wants another interview.”

“Again?”

“Yes, Mr. Castillo. Again. That’s what happens when you’re running one of the world’s top construction firms at forty-eight.”

“Good line. You should pitch that as the interview opener.”

“I will.”

You eat in silence for a while. You take a moment to admire the New York skyline through the huge windows behind Harry’s desk. He likes to keep the lights dim when working late, and the atmosphere feels perfect. The basil lingering in the ragu, the scent of grilled meat, the view of the sprawling city.

Harry sitting across from you. The two of you sharing dinner, like so many times before, and for a moment, it feels like this could be your actual life.

“I can take care of things if you want to go on that trip,” you say, because apparently, your brain-to-mouth filter breaks down when you’re full.

“I know you can.”

“Why not take a vacation?”

“Because I don’t want to,” he says, and you don’t flinch. You’re used to those answers. “I don’t want to travel with the people involved. She knows that. And I have responsibilities.”

“Got it,” you say, leaning back on one hand. Harry watches you. You notice his rolled-up sleeves, the open collar of his shirt, and decide to confess: “I really get it. My boyfriend wants us to go to Bora Bora at the end of the year with two other couples. I can’t stand them.”

“Really? Why?”

“They go to bed at eight. Their idea of being ‘naughty’ is drinking one glass of wine with dinner. Can you imagine that in Bora Bora?”

“Definitely not. Waste of money.”

You snap your fingers and point at him.

“Exactly what I said!”

“You’d like Bora Bora. Rum, sun, and all the shrimp you can eat,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Might be worth leaving the friends behind and going with your boyfriend.”

“My boyfriend also goes to bed at eight.”

Harry’s face says it all, and so does his smile. He finishes his last bite, scoots back on the rug with his water in hand, and leans against the couch. You do the same, sitting beside him, both of you stretched out in that familiar silence of people who’ve just eaten well.

“Do you two live together?” Harry asks. You shake your head. “How long have you been together?”

You do the math.

“Three years and two months.”

“Has he proposed?”

Straight to the point, as always. Instead of answering, you say:

“Can I grab a ginger ale?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

You walk over to the minibar, grab the can, and come back, fully aware of Harry’s eyes following you the whole time. As you crack open the can, you answer:

“He proposed at the beginning of the year, but I said no. For now.”

“Can I ask why?”

You shrug.

“I’m not really sure. I think a proposal should make you excited about the future, but I didn’t feel that. I felt trapped.”

“I see.” Harry studies your face like he’s searching for something. “I don’t think I felt excited about the future either when I proposed.”

“You love your wife.”

“Do you love your boyfriend?” he returns.

“I do.”

“Okay, but?”

“There’s no but,” you say. “I love him. I love our routine. It’s comfortable.”

Harry is silent, but his expression says he doesn’t buy it.

“Harry.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” you reply, shifting to face him. “I love him, but I don’t think I’ve ever been in love with him. No butterflies, no excitement, no stomach-flipping moments.”

“That’s anxiety, not love. Love should be calm.”

“Maybe.”

Silence again. You look out the window. He looks at you.

“I was going to file for divorce last year,” he says suddenly, and it feels like a punch in the stomach. “My therapist told me to wait six months, so I wouldn’t do it in the heat of the moment.”

You’re speechless. He unclasps his watch, slowly continuing.

“I know there’s something wrong with my marriage when I’d rather stay here than go home. I should want to get home to see her. But I don’t. And I know that’s not fair to her either.”

He sets the watch down on the coffee table, next to the empty containers, and rubs his wrist. The hands on the dial show 8:20 p.m.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Not your fault.”

As he says this, Harry crosses his left arm over his chest to press his right shoulder, wincing slightly.

“Your shoulder okay?”, you ask.

“Pulled something at the gym this morning. Been bothering me all day.”

Before you can even think through the consequences, you offer:

“Want me to press on it a bit? Maybe it’s just tension.”

“Isn’t that a bit outside your job description?”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

Harry smirks and shifts, turning his back to you and giving you space to move closer.

There’s something different about today. You’ve never touched Harry like this before. At most, there were brief handshakes or polite taps on his arm, but now you’re kneeling behind him, pressing your fingers into his shoulder in what feels like the most intimate gesture of your life.

His muscles are rock solid.

“Jesus, Harry. I’m booking you a session with your massage therapist.”

Harry leans forward slightly as you apply more pressure on the tight traps and neck tendon, and for a second, your mind slips to a criminal thought: what he must look like under that shirt.

“Please,” he says, replying to your earlier comment. Then he grabs your hand and places it exactly where it hurts. “Harder, please.”

You press. He lets out a satisfied murmur, and without thinking, your fingers slide under his shirt where it’s already unbuttoned. Warm skin meets your touch, and you feel him stiffen just a little.

“This okay?” you ask.

“Yeah. Keep going.”

You hold one shoulder steady and massage with the other hand under the shirt for a few more minutes.

“If I gave you a raise,” Harry says, “would you become my full-time massage therapist?”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“And it still feels fucking incredible.”

He never swears around you. Or anyone. Hearing him say that makes the moment feel even more charged. Strangely, it encourages you. You press harder, still behind him, both hands now working the tension from his shoulders.

Then Harry reaches back and takes your left hand. His thumb brushes lightly over your ring finger, and your breath catches.

“There should be an engagement ring here.”

“Maybe.”

“If you get married, would you still work with me?”

“Yeah. I have Stockholm Syndrome,” you say, shifting your position and stretching one leg beside his body. He lets go of your hand, and you go back to massaging, now reaching the base of his neck. Goosebumps rise under your touch. “I could never live without you barking twenty report requests a day.”

“I’m not that bad. I’m nice to you.”

“You are.”

God. His scent is going to kill you.

“You know what the finance team says about us?” Harry starts. You hum, prompting him to go on. “They say you and I are having an affair.”

“Marketing, too. Pretty much the whole company.”

“What? Why?”

Maybe because you turn into a puddle around him.

“Because you pay me more than anyone else,” you say simply. “And I get privileges and people notice. Of course they’re going to think we’re sleeping together.”

“You don’t care?”

“Maybe I’d care if I worked on one of the lower floors. But here? Not a chance. Let them envy me.”

Harry chuckles, shoulders shaking, and rests a hand on your shin, right over the tights. That touch is new too, and, once again, you freeze.

“I know you pay me well because I’m indispensable,” you continue. “Which is very satisfying.”

“So when we stay late working together—”

“Yes,” you answer before he finishes. “They probably think I’m bent over your desk.”

Harry turns to look at his desk. For one second, you both know exactly what the other is imagining.

“Interesting,” he says slowly. “Has anyone ever said anything to you?”

“No. No one’s crazy enough to say anything to the boss’s supposed mistress,” you joke, but the line falls a bit flat, so you quickly add, “According to their little narrative, I mean.”

The awkward moment is cut short by a notification sound from Harry’s computer. You both look toward his desk, and he groans:

“I hope that’s the report from the Chinese investors. They’re three days late.”

He starts to stand, wincing again because of his shoulder, but you place a hand on his arm and get up:

“I’ll check it. Stay put, old man. Even standing up seems like a challenge for you right now.”

“You just got a 10% pay cut.”

You make a “blah blah blah” gesture with your hand and head to his desk, settling into the chair that’s more like a plush couch. On the screen, there’s an open chart, but you quickly move to his inbox.

The latest email is from someone named Yijun, and there’s an attachment.

“You got it,” you say. “Want me to reply?”

“Acknowledge receipt and say I’ll get back once I’ve reviewed the data.”

You begin typing the reply, carefully channeling your best Harry Castillo voice.

Through your peripheral vision, you catch Harry leaving the floor and settling into the leather couch with a satisfied murmur.

“Best regards,” you read aloud, finishing the email. “Harry Castillo, CEO of Castillo & Co Construction. Sent. Done.”

As you minimize the email window, another one pops up. It’s a pre-filled PDF titled “divorce agreement.” You shrink that window as if it had burned your fingers, only to reveal Harry’s personal inbox behind it.

The last message is from his lawyer. You catch a glimpse of the words “as requested,” “speak with her,” “assets,” and “properties” before closing everything immediately.

There’s a knot in your throat as you stand and silently walk back to the lounge area while Harry watches you. He’s left space beside him on the couch, and you settle there, folding your left leg underneath you.

You’re so close that your knee grazes his thigh.

“I sent it,” you say.

“Thanks. You can head home. I’ll stay a little longer.”

“Avoiding your wife?” He doesn’t answer, and honestly, silence is the wiser choice. But you’re not wise. “Can I ask you something?”

“I might not answer.”

“Fair.” You hesitate. “Swear you won’t fire me?” He still says nothing, and you let out a breath, trusting that you won’t be jobless tomorrow. “Is it true you had a thing with the finance manager?”

Harry’s response is a look of disbelief, as if you just told him the strategy department was considering investing in a country undergoing an economic collapse.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“People talk.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Right. And people also say you and I are having an affair, but that’s not true, is it?” If anyone else had used that tone, you’d probably shrink in your seat. But this is Harry. His stress never goes beyond sarcasm—at least with you. “Of course it’s not true. You really think I’m the kind of boss who sleeps with an employee?”

That silences you, and you’re not even sure where this sudden wave of disappointment comes from. It makes you painfully aware of your place in the company. Despite the trust, the passwords, the confidences, in the end, you’re the executive assistant. Nothing more.

“I don’t” you say finally.

He laughs, incredulous.

“Why do you sound disappointed?” he asks. And at this point, you don’t even know what to say, so you start putting on your heels instead, but Harry is faster. “No, no… Hold on.”

“Do you need anything else?” you ask politely, your left foot already in the shoe.

Harry freezes, eyes locked on you, and you freeze too.

“I have my morals,” he says.

“I know that,” you shake your head slightly, as if trying to hear him better. “Sorry, what do you mean by that?”

“I mean I have my morals, and that’s why I’ve never tried anything in here with the one person who makes me want to, especially because she’s my fucking assistant.”

God. You freeze, heart racing. Your mind latches onto the tense of the verb.

“Makes? Present tense?”

His quiet laugh is almost bitter.

“Unfortunately,” he says, settling back into the couch. “My father raised me right. I have morals, I respect my wife, and I care about my reputation.”

You drop the shoe again and turn to him. Your question is clear, firm:

“Even on nights like this one?”

He says your name like a prayer, rubbing his face with one hand.

“Don’t do this.”

That quiet, simple plea brings you crashing back to reality for the thousandth time. You whisper an apology just as softly, pick up your heels again, and before you can put them on, the leather cushions shift beneath you.

That’s the only warning you get before Harry is close behind you, his hand gently gathering your hair and moving it over your right shoulder to expose your neck.

“I have my morals,” he repeats, coming closer. “Don’t you?”

You think of your boyfriend, and how sweet he is to you. Your mind conjures up images of happy moments, trips, dinners, gifts, and you know you can’t just shove those into a box and lock it away for a few hours. That’s not how it works.

But the way your stomach knots with Harry’s closeness shrinks all those memories down like a sheet of paper folded over and over. They’re still there, but small. Insignificant.

“I do,” you say, because it’s true. “But I can live with that.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Harry murmurs the way he always does when something matters, as if tasting the words.

“If you’re just going to feel guilty—”

“I’m not talking about guilt,” Harry interrupts. And then his hand is on your stomach, pulling you back toward him with one decisive motion that makes you gasp. “I’m saying having you just once wouldn’t be enough.”

“Well, it’s going to have to be.”

At the very first touch of Harry’s lips on your neck, your entire body feels like it’s catching fire, every nerve alive with want, your hands clenched tightly on your thighs. It’s as if every hair on your body is standing on end.

“Did you forget I’m the one giving orders here?” he says. “Once isn’t enough.”

“Is that a command?” you challenge.

Harry’s mouth trails down to your throat, leaving open, wet kisses on your sensitive skin.

His fingers glide lightly to your breasts, the tips barely grazing your nipple through the silk of your blouse. The friction of the fabric makes you arch into his touch so slow and torturous it nearly drives you mad.

“If only you actually followed my orders,” Harry murmurs.

“Of course I do.”

“Yeah?” He kisses the corner of your mouth, pausing just to say, “Then get on your knees for me.”

You shift on the couch to face him, and suddenly, it all feels terrifyingly real. The weight of what you’re doing crashes into you like a slap across the face, because he’s right there, wedding ring on his finger and lips still flushed red.

But unfortunately, it’s not enough to make you stop.

“I want a kiss first.”

Harry parts his legs, giving you space, and you rest one knee between them on the couch, moving in closer to sit on his thigh. You run your fingers along his cheeks, his beard, the collar of his perfectly white shirt. It’s the first time you’ve touched him like this, and you’re certain your gaze gives away more than you want, because there’s a softness in the way Harry pulls you closer.

You’ve caught yourself wondering what kissing him would be like, even during office hours. You’ve seen him kiss his wife before, but it was always just polite pecks, the kind of affection acceptable under New York’s high-society scrutiny.

But nothing could have prepared you for how naturally your lips fit together, or how good it feels. It’s even better than you imagined, just like the rush of doing something so wrong, yet so irresistible, precisely because it’s forbidden, and everything you’ve secretly wanted.

Harry’s hands slide to your waist, deepening the kiss, and yours go straight to his hair, already messier now. The moment his tongue touches yours is the same moment his hands slip beneath your skirt, lifting the fabric as they go.

He finds the lace tops of your stockings, held in place by a garter belt. His hands go straight to your ass, gripping tightly as if it’s instinct.

The curse he whispers makes you smile.

“Take off the skirt and blouse. Get on your knees,” he says, cupping your face and pressing one more kiss to your lips. Then, with a whisper: “Please.”

Hearing this man plead is a dream come true, which is exactly why you nod right away and walk toward his office door.

You close it. Lock it. And as you return to him, you unzip the skirt and slip off your blouse, leaving it behind in your path. The air conditioning makes your nipples hard and sends chills across your skin, but Harry’s gaze, now seated deep into the couch with legs parted, more than makes up for the cold.

Next goes the skirt, and now you’re standing before him in just your stockings, panties, and garter belt.

His lips part as he draws in a deep, appreciative breath, eyes trailing slowly up your body. It’s almost as if he’s touching you with his stare. His hand goes to his tie, loosening it as you sink to your knees.

With your hands resting on your thighs, you watch as he pulls the tie off (the one you bought last month) and undoes the top buttons of his shirt. Next comes the belt and then the button on his pants. Harry leans forward slightly, legs still open, and pulls himself free from his boxers.

Despite the curiosity and heat flooding through you, you keep your eyes locked on his until your tongue brushes the tip of his hard cock. Harry exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut, and there’s a quiet power in watching a man like him unravel — even just a little.

That alone is enough to make you take him fully into your mouth, lips closing around his thick shaft, sinking him deep.

It earns you a low, guttural curse.

Harry gathers your hair in one hand, holding it tight at the base of your neck. You have one hand on his thigh, the other stroking what your mouth can’t reach, and for a few minute, you lose yourself in the weight of him on your tongue, in his taste, his scent, the sounds he makes just for you.

And then just one question slices through the haze:

“What would your boyfriend think, seeing you like this?” Harry asks, his voice so polite it almost clashes with what you’re doing. He pulls your head back, letting his cock slip from your mouth, dragging the tip across your lips like he’s marking you. “On your knees for your boss. Do you suck his cock this well too?”

You narrow your eyes.

There’s probably an unspoken rule about not mentioning spouses or partners during moments like this. The act is already betrayal enough.

But if Harry wants to play that game, you won’t back down.

You rise slightly on your knees, aligning yourself so he can press his cock between your breasts, and you reach for his mouth to whisper:

“And do you get this hard when it’s your wife sucking your cock? Because if you did, you’d probably want to be home right now.”

Harry smiles against your lips and kisses you again as you climb onto his lap, and he remains silent.

“Let’s go all the way,” you say, because you’re far too wet to let this go to waste. “Right?”

“Right,” Harry answers without hesitation. “No turning back.”

“Do you want to?”

He slips his hand into your panties and finds so much wetness that his fingers glide immediately. His answer comes when he lifts the same fingers to his mouth, eyes locked on yours.

That makes you rush to unclip the garter belt and slide off your panties, tossing them aside. Harry gets the message and starts striping off his pants and shirt. And suddenly you’re on your back with Harry’s heavy and sturdy body on yours, skin on skin.

Harry rolls down your stockings in one smooth, hurried motion. You wrap your thighs around his hips.

“I don’t have a condom,” he says, and God, if eyes could beg, his would be on their knees. “It’s not like a married man needs to carry one around.”

“I printed your test results last week. And I don’t have sex without a condom…” you begin—and then add, “…with my boyfriend.”

He gets it.

“Can I?”

“You can.”

Harry doesn’t even glance down as he guides himself inside you, keeping his eyes on your face, your mouth, his own opening bit by bit while sinking into the wetness. When he’s fully buried, you have to shift your hips to adjust to his thick length.

“Just a second,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He nods, and you take the moment to ask, “Had you imagined this before?”

“I don’t know how to answer that without sounding like a pervert.”

You run your thumb across his eyebrow, studying his features in the dim light of the office.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you I’ve imagined you while fucking my boyfriend?”

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“I want details.”

“Earlier that day you and I were at a meeting. You did some absurd calculation in your head, and it made me wet. So I went home and…”

“Fucked him while thinking about me,” he finishes, smiling. “Filthy mouth.”

When you keep staring at him, silently asking for his turn, Harry sighs.

“Of course I’ve imagined it. Every time we stay late together, or when you wear that damn red dress and walk into my office, and especially when you put arrogant assholes in their place. You drive me insane.”

You reach between your bodies, your fingers trailing along where you’re joined, circling the base of Harry’s cock. He jerks his hips reflexively, breathing out a soft moan.

“And…” you press.

“And sometimes I dream about you and wake up so fucking hard that…” Harry begins to move his hips slowly when you give him a nod. The thrust is deep, slow, excruciating, and he fills you entirely. You almost miss his next words:

“…I wake my wife up and fuck her.”

“While thinking of me.”

Harry grips your hips and covers your mouth with his:

“While thinking of you.”

Your mouths open into a kiss that matches the way he fucks you: raw, urgent, drenched in tension. Every thrust hits something deep inside you, something you’re not sure anyone else ever will again. You cling to his shoulders, resisting the urge to claw at him, lifting your hips to match his rhythm.

You’re soaked, so much it’s nearly embarrassing, and you’re certain Harry’s lap is drenched with it too. As his movements grow more erratic, you slide a hand between your legs.

Harry catches your wrist, guiding it back to his shoulder.

“No, no… You’re gonna come on my mouth later.”

Well. Okay.

Harry shifts to sit back on the couch, one foot planted on the floor, the other tucked under his leg. He pulls you into his lap again, and this new angle makes him reach deeper, every little shift filling you completely. When he's about to come, he grips your waist tightly to keep you still and thrusts harder, driven by your moans, his mouth open against the space between your breasts."

“Can I come inside?” Harry asks, holding you firmly.

“Please.”

He groans, wrapping his arms around you, and just a few more thrusts later he’s pulsing inside you, breathing heavily against your skin. The warmth floods you in a way that makes you throb for your own release.

“Harry, I need to—”

“I know.”

You’re not sure how it happens so quickly, but in the next second he’s back on the couch, and you’re straddling his face. Then it’s his mouth, his lips on your aching clit.

You grip his hair and glance down, meeting his gaze. Your whimper turns into a moan as he drags his tongue along your folds, tasting both of you, and returns to sucking that overstimulated spot.

“Stick your tongue out,” you beg. “Please—”

He does, and you immediately grind against it, whispering Harry’s name over and over like a prayer.

It hits you like an earthquake. So sudden, so intense that your whole body trembles on top of him, and for a split second, it feels like you forget how to breathe. When you come back to yourself, you’re sitting on his chest, and Harry’s wiping his beard with the palm of his hand, a crooked little smirk on his red lips.

You look down at him and say:

“We’re going to hell.”

He wraps his arms around you and sits up, keeping you in his lap.

“I’m an atheist,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “So… okay.”

“Okay.”

“And now?”

“Now,” you say slowly, cupping his face and making him look at you again. “This never happened. We go back to our lives like nothing ever did.”

Harry sighs your name.

“You say a lot of smart things. That’s not one of them.”

You pinch his cheek, offering no reply, and slip off his lap to gather your clothes from the floor. Your stockings, panties, skirt, and blouse. When you return to the couch, Harry’s already pulled on his boxers and pants, so you sit next to him to do the same.

The entire process of getting dressed again is done in silence, and you’re not sure what you feel: shame, guilt, some strange sense of calm… The only thing that doesn’t hit you is regret — and that makes you feel guilty too.

As you’re slipping on your heels, Harry says:

“It’s only nine-forty.”

“Hm?”

“We still have two hours and twenty minutes before the night’s over. And I’ve got an empty apartment about twenty minutes from here.”

You look up at him, and he adds:

“If tomorrow we’re going to pretend this never happened, we might as well make the most of it tonight.”

You know it’s a terrible excuse. You know that tomorrow neither of you will be able to pretend this didn’t happen. You don’t know what comes next, and the ring on Harry’s finger sits like a weight in your gut, but you’re not a good person.

You lied to Harry. Your morals are bent, and even though you’re fully aware of the circumstances, they don’t stop you.

Nothing could stop you from getting what you want. And right now? You know exactly what you want.

“I’ll wait for you in the garage,” you tell him.

[h1biscusgal]

The long awaited method : HMM for self hypnosis towards the void, enter under 2min.

WARNING : this method is quite powerful, it's not a method on directly entering the void, but it's a method I've perfected to be able to induce the void INSTANTLY under 5 minutes, given by on how to hypnotize yourself.

Please make sure you're ready for this, and you have a clear mind for this, self hypnosis is extremely powerful and if done rightly? It helps immensely, the chances after this to enter the void is 90%, you know what the 10% is for, belief and trust in this method.

Let's start.

Introduction:

This method is something I've stumbled on long before, and I just remembered how it may actually help those with a limit in their mind that does not let them enter the void, first of all, props to the person who make this trance inducing method which is using the magic magnet fingers, and since I'm pairing it with the void, I'll call it Hibiscus's Mind Magnet, or just HMM for short.

This method requires you to sit down somewhere quiet, somewhere with limit sound, does not matter if there's light or not, simply sit somewhere comfortably and I urge you to do a small mini meditation before hand if your mind is crowded, best time to do so is when you wake up.

The steps:

Sit comfortably. (Has to sit)

If having crowded thoughts, meditate for a clearer mind.

Set your suggestion : a suggestion is something you want to stick deep into your subconscious, aka "I always enter the void under 2 minutes."

You can use any other suggestions, this is just for the void I'm explaining now, now that your mind is calm, everything is ready, simply begin by clasping your fingers in front of yourself together and leaving the two index fingers to stick above.

Now, look and focus at the space between those two fingers, okay? Now begin to imagine that ok either sides of your palm, there's two big magnets.

Stare at the space between the fingers, in a moments time when you let go, you see your fingers actually getting pulled subconsciously together like magnets, and eventually you'll feel this sudden pull of your own face towards it, at this point, continue to stare at it UNTIL your indexes hit each other.

Now you begin to realize even your eyelids are tired and droopy, that's the perfect state, now gently lower your hand in your lap and close your eyes, let the fatigue wash over you, you'll feel lightheaded and dizzy, this, is the perfect state called the Trance state.

Begin by saying your suggestion slowly, simply affirming deeply by saying "I always enter the void under 2 minutes." And only use one suggestion please.

When you feel ready, and you feel done, that's when you're done with this trance state, to get out, begin by forcing yourself to focus things around you, the blanket underneath you perhaps, the hands in your lap, and slowly open your eyes again.

Done, you have just hypnotized yourself, and remember, results can show in just one session, but if you're doubtful, it will take more than one session, do this before attempting for the void and simply go on with ANY method of the void, you'll succeed.

Good luck ml! I hope I made myself clear, and please remember I won't be online here for a couple of days as I have been too much on here and it's affecting my studying, either way, good luck and whatever questions you have I'll answer later, happy void!

Edit// for those who don't understand the hand part and how to clasp it:

It's like this

[sonarspace]

⋆⁺₊❅ ALL THEY WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU .ᐟ

꒰ synopsis. the holidays are all about giving—and these men don’t hold back.

featuring. nanami. choso. geto. sukuna. gojo. toji. (separate) content. mdni. v. nsfw. unprotected sėx. teasing. squırting. overstimulation. ōral (m & f). dirty talk. exhibitionism. slight dóm..

an. sorry for the slow updates... hope you enjoy this!

✶ NANAMI

kento nanami prided himself on his discipline. he was methodical, precise, a man who didn’t give in to impulse. but tonight, as you leaned against his desk, the hem of your dress riding up just enough to tease him with the curve of your thighs, every ounce of control he possessed teetered on the brink.

“you’re staring,” you teased, your tone playful but laced with challenge.

“can you blame me?” he replied, his voice low and steady, though his gaze darkened as he stepped closer. “you’ve been testing me all night.”

you tilted your head, feigning innocence, your lips curving into a slow smile. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

his jaw tightened, the faintest twitch betraying the restraint that was already unraveling. “oh, you know exactly what you’re doing.”

in two strides, he was in front of you, his large hands gripping your hips as he pressed you back against the desk. “you want to play games?” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, his tone dropping into something dangerous. “let’s see how long you can keep that act up.”

his hands slid lower, gripping the curve of your ass and pulling you flush against him. the heat of his body, the hardness pressing into your core, had your breath hitching despite yourself.

“kento,” you whispered, his name slipping from your lips like a plea.

“don’t,” he growled, spinning you around and bending you over the desk in one smooth motion. “don’t start begging yet, sweetheart. we’re just getting started.”

his hands pushed your dress higher, bunching it around your waist as he drank in the sight of you, the thin lace of your panties barely hiding how soaked you were. “fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough, filled with something raw. “look at you. so wet and needy already.”

he hooked his fingers into your panties, dragging them down slowly, the cool air raising goosebumps on your skin. you whimpered, trying to shift, but his hands pressed firmly against your hips, holding you in place.

“stay still,” he ordered, his voice commanding but soft with control. “you don’t get to move until I’m finished with you.”

his hand slid between your thighs, his fingers finding your slick folds and spreading you open. he groaned softly, a deep, guttural sound that made your knees weak. “so fucking perfect,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your clit in a slow, teasing circle.

you gasped, your body arching instinctively, but he pressed you down against the desk, his other hand firm on your lower back. “patience,” he muttered, though the strain in his voice made it clear he was talking to himself as much as to you.

when you turned your head to look at him, he leaned down, catching your lips in a messy, spit-slick kiss. his tongue slid against yours, hot and insistent, as his fingers slid inside you, curling just enough to make your breath hitch.

“you like that?” he murmured against your mouth, his voice low and rough. “you like how good i make you feel?”

you could only moan, your words catching in your throat as he worked you open, his fingers thrusting deep, unrelenting. his thumb pressed against your clit, drawing tighter circles as your body trembled.

“k-kento,” you whimpered, your voice breaking as the pleasure built to unbearable heights.

“not yet,” he growled, pulling his fingers out, leaving you gasping. “you’re not coming until i’m inside you.”

he freed himself from his slacks, his cock thick and heavy, the tip already slick as he pressed it against your entrance. “you ready for me?” he asked, his tone rough, though he didn’t wait for an answer before pushing inside.

the stretch was overwhelming, his girth filling you completely as you cried out, your nails clawing at the desk. “fuck,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips as he sank in to the hilt. “you feel so good.”

he gave you no time to adjust, his thrusts slow but deep, each one deliberate, leaving you breathless. the slick sound of your arousal filled the room, mingling with the soft creak of the desk and his ragged breaths.

“so fucking tight,” he muttered, his hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to whisper in your ear. “you’re perfect for me, you know that?”

you whimpered, your body trembling as he quickened his pace, his cock sliding in and out with a rhythm that had you spiraling. his free hand slid down, gripping your jaw and tilting your face toward him.

“open,” he commanded, and when you did, his tongue slid into your mouth, messy and possessive. when he pulled back, a thin string of spit connected you, and his smirk deepened. “so fucking pretty like this. all mine.”

his thrusts grew rougher, his pace unrelenting as your body tightened around him, your moans growing louder with every movement. “that’s it,” he groaned, his fingers sliding down to rub your clit. “come for me, sweetheart. let me feel it.”

his words sent you over the edge, your body convulsing as your climax hit, your walls clenching around him as a cry tore from your lips. nanami followed moments later, his grip on your hips bruising as he buried himself deep, spilling into you with a low, guttural groan.

he stayed there for a moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder as his chest heaved, his hands still gripping your hips as if he couldn’t let go.

finally, he straightened, pulling you up to face him, his hands gentle on your hips as his thumbs brushed softly over your skin. his gaze, once intense, now held a warmth that melted through the air between you.

leaning in, he pressed a lingering kiss to your lips, tender and unhurried. “you’re everything,” he murmured, his voice low and steady against your skin. “and i’ll never let you forget it.”

✶ CHOSO

the fire crackled softly, casting warm, flickering light across the dim room. you were nestled in choso’s lap, his arms loosely wrapped around your waist, holding you as if he was afraid you might disappear. the silence between you was comfortable, broken only by the soft purring of the flames and the occasional rustle of fabric as you shifted.

“you’ve been quiet,” you murmured, your fingers brushing over his cheek, tracing the delicate lines of his features.

“just... thinking,” he replied, his voice low, almost hesitant. his dark eyes met yours, searching for something you couldn’t quite name.

“about what?”

“you,” he admitted, his blush deepening as he averted his gaze.

your heart softened at the admission, and you leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “what about me?”

his hands tightened slightly on your hips, grounding himself. “about how much i want to take care of you. to make you feel good.”

your cheeks flushed, and your breath hitched as you felt his fingers brush against your back, his touch hesitant, almost reverent. “you always take care of me,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

“not like this,” he whispered, his gaze lifting to meet yours again, vulnerability shining in his eyes.

his hands slid down to your thighs, guiding you to straddle him fully. his grip was gentle but steady, his touch warm against your skin. you could feel him beneath you, hard and warm, his need evident, but he made no move to rush you.

“is this okay?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

you nodded, your hands cupping his face as you leaned in to kiss him, your lips soft against his. he responded eagerly, his hands tightening on your hips as he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing against yours in a tentative exploration.

“let me,” he murmured against your lips, his hands moving to guide you as he shifted slightly, positioning himself.

you gasped softly as he entered you, the slow stretch making your breath hitch. his hands were steady on your hips, his gaze locked on yours as he watched every flicker of emotion that crossed your face.

“you’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

you began to move, your hands braced on his shoulders as you rocked your hips against him. his breath hitched, his grip tightening as he struggled to hold himself together.

“you feel so good,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “so perfect for me.”

“choso,” you breathed, your voice soft, your fingers threading into his hair as you leaned into him.

his arms wrapped around you, holding you close as he buried his face in your neck, his lips brushing against your skin in soft, reverent kisses. his pace was unhurried, each thrust deliberate, his focus entirely on you.

“tell me what you need,” he whispered, his voice laced with desperation. “i’ll do anything. just tell me.”

“you’re already giving me everything,” you replied, your voice trembling as you pressed your forehead against his.

his movements grew more urgent, his breath coming faster as he felt you tighten around him, your soft moans spurring him on. “please,” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly as he held you closer. “let go for me. i need to feel you.”

his words pushed you over the edge, your body trembling as pleasure crashed over you in waves. you clung to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as his name spilled from your lips.

he followed seconds later, his groan low and guttural as he buried himself deep, his grip on you almost desperate. he held you there, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath, his hands brushing soothingly over your back.

“did i do okay?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze searching yours.

“you were perfect,” you assured him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

he smiled, his expression soft, filled with love as he held you close, the warmth of the fire wrapping around you both like a blanket.

✶ GETO

the christmas market was a sensory overload of laughter, twinkling lights, and the sugary scent of roasted treats. but none of it held your attention, not when suguru geto had been making subtle moves all evening—brushing his fingers over yours, leaning in a little too close to murmur something in your ear, letting his hand rest low on your back.

you were supposed to be admiring the twinkling lights strung across the market stalls, but all you could focus on was the heat simmering in your body, stoked by the glances he kept throwing your way.

“having fun?” he asked, his tone smooth, his lips quirking up in a knowing smile as he caught the way you were looking at him.

“fun enough,” you replied, feigning nonchalance, though your voice betrayed you, trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze.

“is that right?” he mused, his hand brushing against yours before gripping it firmly. without another word, he led you away from the bustling market, slipping into a quiet, snow-dusted alley.

the moment you were out of sight, his lips were on yours, hot and demanding, his body pressing you back against the rough brick wall. his hands were firm on your waist, pulling you flush against him as his mouth claimed yours, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp.

“you’ve been teasing me all night,” he muttered against your lips, his voice low, a dark edge coloring his tone. “touching me, looking at me like that. you think i wouldn’t notice?”

“i wasn’t—” you started, but the words died on your tongue as his hand slid up your thigh, pushing your dress higher.

“don’t lie to me,” he murmured, his voice soft but laced with warning as his fingers found the damp fabric of your panties. “your body tells me everything i need to know.”

your breath hitched as his fingers pressed against you, slow and deliberate, stroking over the wet heat that had been building all evening.

“fuck,” he muttered, his smirk widening as he pushed the fabric aside, letting his fingers slide over your slick folds. “you’re soaked, aren’t you? you’ve been like this all night, haven’t you?”

“suguru,” you whimpered, your hips jerking against his hand as his fingers slipped inside, curling just right to make you gasp.

“say my name again,” he commanded, his tone rough as he thrust his fingers deeper, his thumb brushing over your clit with maddening precision.

“suguru,” you moaned, your voice breaking as your head tipped back against the wall.

he chuckled, the sound dark and satisfied as he pulled his fingers out, his other hand working quickly to free his cock. “can’t wait any longer,” he muttered, his voice strained as he lined himself up, his tip pressing against your entrance.

with one slow, powerful thrust, he filled you completely, the stretch making your breath catch as he groaned low in his throat.

“fuck,” he muttered, his hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you slightly, pinning you against the wall. “you feel too fucking good.”

his movements were rough, relentless, each thrust driving you harder against the wall, the friction of the bricks biting into your skin but only adding to the intensity.

“look at you,” he growled, his voice dripping with arrogance as his eyes locked onto yours. “you love this, don’t you? being fucked out in the open like this, where anyone could see.”

you couldn’t respond, your mind too fogged with pleasure as he drove into you, his pace unrelenting, his cock hitting all the right spots.

“say it,” he demanded, his grip tightening on your hips. “tell me how much you love being mine.”

“i love it,” you gasped, your voice trembling as you clung to him. “i love being yours, suguru.”

“that’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice low and full of satisfaction.

his thumb found your clit again, circling it with just enough pressure to push you closer to the edge. his teeth grazed your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered, “come for me. i want to feel you.”

you shattered around him, your body trembling as pleasure ripped through you, your walls clenching tight around him. his rhythm faltered, his groan deep and guttural as he buried himself deep, his release spilling into you in hot waves.

he stayed there for a moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both caught your breath. when he finally pulled back, his smirk returned, wicked and self-assured.

“next year, let’s skip the market,” he murmured, his voice teasing but laced with promise. “i’d rather spend the night fucking you senseless instead.”

✶ SUKUNA

sukuna doesn’t do patience. not when it comes to you.

it’s christmas eve, and the palace is silent, save for the crackle of a roaring fire in the meeting room’s hearth. the long, cold table stretches out behind you, but you’re too busy backing sukuna into one of the wide, throne-like chairs at its head, a daring glint in your eye that he can’t seem to look away from.

you’ve been testing him all evening, teasing glances and little smiles, swaying your hips just enough to make his blood boil. and now, with the way his heavy cocks throb against his robes, his crimson eyes fixed on you as if you’re prey, it’s clear he’s at the end of his frayed restraint.

“you’ve been pushing me all fucking night,” he growls, his massive frame towering over you as you position yourself between his knees, tugging at the edges of his robes.

“what are you gonna do about it?” you taunt, feigning innocence as your fingers trail up his thighs. the heat of his skin seeps through the fabric, your touch deliberate and slow.

“oh, princess,” he sneers darkly, gripping your wrists with his clawed hands, yanking you to straddle his lap with a force that leaves you breathless. “you’ll regret asking that.”

with a flick of his wrist, the hem of your dress is bunched up around your waist. his eyes drink you in, dark and ravenous as his hands trace the curve of your thighs.

“do you even realize what you’ve done to me?” he mutters, his voice low, dangerous. “walking around like that all night, looking like something to unwrap.”

“maybe i did,” you whisper, the heat in your cheeks betrayed by the coy smirk on your lips.

his laugh is sharp, almost cruel, as he yanks the thin strip of fabric covering you to the side. “you have no idea what you’re asking for.”

the first cock presses against your slick folds, the stretch and fullness stealing the breath from your lungs as he buries himself to the hilt in one swift motion. you gasp, nails clawing at his broad shoulders as the sensation overwhelms you.

“fuck,” he groans, his head tipping back for a moment before his red eyes snap to yours. “always so tight. so perfect.”

his second cock, still throbbing and heavy, slides up against your slick, the ridged underside grinding against your sensitive clit with each rough thrust. the friction makes you tremble, and sukuna’s smirk widens, satisfaction radiating from every inch of him.

“you’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you?” he sneers, his voice thick with mockery as his hips move faster, his grip on your waist bruising. “already dripping, already wanting more.”

you’re about to snap back when you feel it—a wet, hot pressure against your clit. sukuna’s second mouth splits open just above where he’s buried inside you, and his tongue flicks out to lap at the swollen bundle of nerves.

“fuck, sukuna!” you cry out, your body jerking at the overwhelming sensation.

“look at you,” he growls, his breath hot against your ear. “falling apart already. and we’re just getting started.”

desperate for some control, your shaky hand reaches down, wrapping around his second cock. the thick shaft pulses under your grip, and sukuna groans loudly, his hips faltering for the briefest moment.

“you think you can keep up with me?” he rasps, his tone dripping with arrogance as his tongue flicks faster against your clit. “go ahead, princess. show me.”

you stroke him, your fingers tightening around the thick girth, and he grits his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he struggles to maintain his composure.

“you’re close, aren’t you?” he taunts, his voice low, vibrating through the tongue lapping mercilessly at you. “just let go. i want to feel it.”

the heat coils tighter in your core, unbearable and relentless, until the dam finally breaks. your body shudders violently, a gush of liquid soaking him as you come undone, your grip faltering completely. sukuna groans, his hand gripping your waist harder as he rides through your release, his tongue savoring every drop of your pleasure.

“fuck,” he snarls, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he watches the mess you’ve made. “you fucking drenched me.”

before you can catch your breath, his second mouth opens wider, latching onto your oversensitive clit, and you let out a choked sob as the sensation drags you to another peak. sukuna’s free hand tangles in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp.

“sukuna,” you plead, your voice breaking as he pushes you past every limit, the stretch of his cock and the relentless flick of his tongue too much.

“that’s it,” he growls, his voice rough as his thrusts grow desperate, chasing his own release. with a final, deep thrust, he shudders, spilling hot and thick inside you as his tongue flicks one last time, sending you spiraling into another wave of pleasure.

you collapse against him, trembling and breathless, his chest heaving beneath you as he runs a clawed hand through your hair.

“merry fucking christmas,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your ear. “you’ll be feeling me for days.”

✶ GOJO

satoru gojo hated christmas parties.

too much noise, too many fake smiles, and far too many people trying to steal your attention. he’d spent the entire evening watching from the sidelines, his jaw tight, his fingers itching to drag you away from every lingering gaze and polite laugh.

you were glowing tonight, wrapped in a soft white dress that clung to all the right places, your laughter like music that had him buzzing with frustration and desire.

by the time you excused yourself from the party’s main room, he couldn’t wait a second longer.

“where are we going?” you asked, breathless, as he tugged you down the quiet hallway, his grip firm but not rough.

“somewhere quiet,” he replied, his tone deceptively light as he pushed open a bathroom door and locked it behind you.

“satoru—”

he didn’t let you finish. his lips were on yours in an instant, the kiss hot and insistent, his hands gripping your waist as if he couldn’t bear another second without touching you.

you gasped against his mouth, your hands fisting in his shirt as his tongue slid against yours, coaxing you into a rhythm that had you melting.

“you’ve been driving me insane all night,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low, each word vibrating against your skin. “walking around in this dress, smiling at everyone like that. you really think I can just stand there and watch?”

“i wasn’t trying to—”

“doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, his hands sliding down to the hem of your dress, his fingers curling into the soft fabric. “you’re mine tonight.”

his lips moved to your neck, nipping at the delicate skin as he pushed the dress higher, his touch deliberate, unhurried, as if he wanted to savor every moment.

“you’re so fucking pretty,” he muttered, his breath warm against your neck as his hands slid up your thighs. “do you even know what you do to me?”

you whimpered, your body already responding to his touch, the heat pooling low in your belly as his fingers found the edge of your panties, tugging them down in one smooth motion.

“satoru,” you whispered, your voice trembling as he spread your legs, his blue eyes blazing with hunger.

he grinned, the look in his eyes nothing short of wicked as he kneeled before you, his broad hands gripping your thighs to pull you closer.

“can’t wait to taste you,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin as his lips trailed up your inner thigh.

he didn’t waste any more time, his tongue flicking against your clit with practiced ease, drawing a sharp gasp from you. his grip on your thighs tightened as he pressed his mouth against you, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes that had you clutching the sink for support.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your core as he worked you open, his tongue sliding inside you with a precision that left you trembling.

your fingers found his hair, tugging gently as his tongue flicked against your clit, the pressure building with every movement.

“satoru,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he sucked gently, sending a shockwave through your entire body.

“so sweet,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire as he pulled back for just a moment to look up at you. “keep making those pretty sounds for me.”

his tongue moved faster, his hands sliding up to grip your hips, holding you in place as he pushed you closer to the edge.

just as you teetered on the brink, a sharp knock at the door made you freeze.

“occupied,” satoru called smoothly, his voice light and teasing, though his eyes never left yours.

“fine,” came toji’s gruff voice from the other side. “guess I’ll find another.”

“relax,” satoru murmured, smirking as he leaned in to kiss your inner thigh. “he’s not coming back.”

his fingers slid between your folds, pressing against your clit as his tongue returned to work, the combination of sensations driving you over the edge.

“let go for me,” he murmured, his voice soft but commanding. “i want to feel you fall apart.”

you did, your body arching against him as your climax tore through you, your cry muffled against his shoulder as waves of pleasure rippled through you.

he didn’t stop, his tongue slowing to draw out every last aftershock until your legs were trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

finally, he pulled back, his smirk softening as he pressed a gentle kiss to your inner thigh.

“merry christmas, pretty girl,” he murmured, his blue eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and warmth as he stood, pulling you into his arms. “you’re the best present I’ve ever had.”

✶ TOJI

toji fushiguro was never one for holiday cheer, but he’d come to the damn christmas party anyway—because of you.

you’d looked unreal all night, that white dress hugging every curve, the soft glow of the fairy lights giving you an ethereal edge. toji couldn’t tear his eyes away.

you looked like an angel. the kind they put on top of christmas trees. but toji thought bitterly, grinding his teeth, i’d much rather have her on top of my di—.

he couldn’t shake the image, couldn’t focus on anything else but the way the dress swayed as you moved, the way your laugh made his pulse race. by the time the party reached its peak, he was practically pacing, his frustration coiling tight in his chest.

finally, he decided he needed a minute to himself. toji stalked down the hall, heading for the bathroom with every intention of relieving the problem he’d been dealing with all night.

his hand reached for the doorknob, but before he could turn it, a familiar voice rang out from the other side.

“occupied,” gojo sang, his tone smug as hell.

toji froze, his jaw tightening as a faint, breathy sound drifted through the door. his brow twitched.

great. even that loser is getting more action than me.

“fucking unreal,” he muttered, stalking off toward the stairs, his shoulders tense.

he made his way to the second floor, pushing open a random door to find an empty guest room. toji sank onto the edge of the bed with a low groan, his head tipping back against the wall as he tried—and failed—to push you out of his mind.

it didn’t help that the faint sounds of the party still filtered through the floorboards, or that every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was you.

he was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear the door creak open until it was too late.

“toji?”

his head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of you standing in the doorway.

you stepped inside, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you closed the door behind you. “thought you might be up here.”

“you followin’ me, angel?” his voice came out rougher than he intended, his gaze locked on the way your dress shifted with every step.

you shook your head, biting your lip. “you left so suddenly. i was… worried.”

toji’s lips twitched into a smirk, though the tension still coiled tight in his chest. “worried about me?”

when you nodded, stepping closer, his patience snapped. he reached out, gripping your wrist and tugging you between his knees.

“you really don’t know what you’re doing to me, do you?” he muttered, his other hand sliding up your thigh, the fabric of your dress bunching under his fingers.

“toji,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“don’t,” he cut you off, his other hand moving to your waist, pulling you closer. “don’t act like you don’t want this too.”

you didn’t deny it. instead, you let him pull you onto his lap, your hands finding his shoulders as he claimed your mouth in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, his frustration pouring out in every rough swipe of his lips.

“been thinking about you all fucking night,” he growled against your lips, his hands sliding under your dress to grip your bare hips. “lookin’ like a damn angel. how the hell am i supposed to keep my hands off you?”

“then don’t,” you murmured, your voice breathy as you shifted against him, feeling the hard press of his cock through his slacks.

his laugh was low, dangerous. “careful what you wish for, angel.”

toji flipped you onto the bed in one swift motion, your back meeting the soft sheets as he settled between your legs. his hands were rough but reverent, sliding up your thighs to push your dress higher, revealing the thin lace of your panties.

“fuck,” he muttered, his gaze darkening as he hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled them down, the fabric sliding over your skin before landing on the floor.

his lips followed the path of his hands, kissing up the inside of your thigh, his teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm.

“so pretty,” he murmured, his voice almost soft as he kissed the curve of your hip.

he unbuckled his belt with a practiced ease, his slacks sliding just enough for him to free his cock, already hard and thick, the head flushed as he stroked himself once.

“you ready for me, angel?” he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours, dark and unrelenting.

you nodded, your breath hitching as you shifted beneath him, your legs spreading wider.

“good girl,” he muttered, lining himself up with your entrance. with one powerful thrust, he buried himself inside you, his cock stretching you until he was fully seated, the sound of your breathless gasp making his grip on your hips tighten.

“fuck,” he groaned, his voice low and rough as he pulled back, only to thrust into you again, the slick heat of you making him shudder. “feel so good, angel. you’re fucking perfect.”

each thrust was deep, deliberate, his pace unrelenting as he drove into you, the bed creaking beneath you. your nails dug into his shoulders, your head tipping back as the pleasure built, each movement hitting spots that left you trembling.

“look at you,” he muttered, his voice thick with awe. “falling apart for me. so damn beautiful.”

you couldn’t form words, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as he shifted, angling his hips to hit even deeper. the pressure built with each thrust, your body tightening around him as he brought you closer to the edge.

“toji,” you whimpered, your voice barely a whisper, the sound enough to make his thrusts grow rougher, more desperate.

“that’s it,” he growled, his hand sliding up to tangle in your hair. “come for me, angel. i want to feel you.”

his words sent you spiraling, your body arching beneath him as your climax crashed over you, your walls clenching around him as your cries filled the room.

“fuck,” he groaned, his thrusts growing erratic as he buried himself deep inside you, spilling into you with a low, guttural sound.

toji stayed there, his breath warm against your neck as he caught his breath. pulling back slightly, he brushed a strand of hair from your face, his thumb grazing your cheek.

“can’t get enough of you,” he murmured, his voice rough but tender.

he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead before pulling you close, his arms wrapping around you. “stay with me,” he muttered softly. “just a little longer.”

[exopelagic]

liveblogging my descent into madness

[cherrygirlfriend]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ examination table

pairing: gynecologist!rafe x reader synopsis: you go to get artificial insemination. your gyno has a different method. warnings/tags: smut, artificial insemination, unprotected piv, breeding kink, public sex, small surprise at the end, MDNI! wc: 1.2k a/n; aside from having to do a strange amount of research about ovulation, iui and me overall being against male gynos; this was fun.

rafe masterlist ♡

you couldn't resist the urge to tap the heel of your boot against the linoleum floor - rolling your golden wedding band so you wouldn't bite your freshly manicured nails. it felt like your heart was going to thump thump thump out of your chest and land on the floor in front of you.

there were only three other people in the waiting room, a few posters related to women's health decorating the otherwise plain, dull, light green walls of the office, the tick-tock of the clock and the hushed whispers of the two nurses behind the front desk being the only thing you could focus on, along with the overpowering stench of chanel no 5 that was wafting from the other customer waiting for her appointment browsing through an age-old copy of cosmopolitan.

you nearly hopped to your feet when the door to one of the offices opened, clutching your purse like it was the only thing keeping you afloat. "come in." doctor cameron said with a small smile on his lips, gesturing towards his office.

you followed the tall man into the sterile, white office, holding your arms tightly against your chest, your shoulders hunched. when doctor cameron noticed how skittish you were being, he offered a small smile, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder before using it to cup your cheek and lifting it up so you were forced to look at his freckled face, "there's no need to be nervous. this is a pretty regular procedure. you can change into the gown and lay down on the examination table."

when you let out a reluctant nod, the doctor walked further into his office, giving you some privacy. while you listened to him rifle through papers, slowly, you tugged your sweater off along with your jeans, leaving your underwear to cover your skin that was now in goosebumps while you covered yourself with the blue rustling hospital gown, until it came time to slip them off.

you took a few tentative steps towards the examination table, walking on your heels as your gynecologist turned to face you, your chart in his hands, his blue eyes skimming over the details as you sat down onto the examination table, the paper sheet rustling against the paper gown in a way that made you cringe.

"so, how many days ago did you take your last dose of clomid?"

"eight days ago." you said with a tight smile, fiddling with the hem of your gown, "and i did an ovulation test before i left home, and it said my ovulation should be at its highest."

"you've really done your homework." he chuckled, placing down the clipboard, placing his warm hand on your bare knee in a comforting gesture. "are you ready to get started? i've got your husband's specimen prepared. don't worry, the catheter won't hurt, you might just feel a bit uncomfortable for a moment."

you took a deep breath, closing your eyes and laying back as you steadied your breathing, trying your best to get comfortable. "ready." you whispered softly, opening your eyes to look up at the slightly yellow-tinted fluorescent light above you.

"it helps the sperm to travel if you've got your pelvis propped up." doctor cameron said in a slightly hushed tone, lifting your hips up and placing a pillow underneath your hips, his hands pressing your hips down to meet it, keeping them there as he looked down at you with a small smile. "there you go. are you comfortable?"

"it does." you swallow dryly, fiddling with the paper sheet underneath you, sighing. "i hope it works out. we've been trying to get pregnant for a year now."

"yeah?" he looked down at you, his eyes crinkling slightly, the feel of the pads of his fingers brushing against your bare skin as he drew small patterns to the hem of your hospital gown. "you know what people say helps with getting pregnant?"

"what?" you almost whispered, your thighs starting to form goosebumps under doctor cameron's fingers as they slowly slid under the crinkly god-ugly gown.

"orgasms." his hand continued to slide up your inner thigh, the metal of your doctor's wedding ring a pleasing contrast against your warm skin, "it's never been proven to be accurate, of course." his hand was just under your crotch, drawing infinity-symbols on your skin, a pondering look on his face as he cocked his head to the side, a small smirk appearing on his face, "but it never hurts to be thorough, right?"

doctor cameron had you folded over on the examination table, holding your legs at your sides, his warm lips placing sloppy, hot kisses on your neck as his cock slid out of you before slamming against your cervix, the man letting out a soft breathy laugh at every little gasp or moan that managed to escape your lips.

"how many times do i have to tell you, sweetie?" he mumbled against your skin, rafe's words intensified by the pace of his hips snapping against yours increasing, a loud yelp leaving you, "you don't need to try and keep quiet. no one's gonna hear us." he breathed out.

the pad of his thumb found your your clit, starting to draw small circles on it as the room was filled with your unsteady breathing combined with the lewd squelch of your pussy every time his hips met yours, "come on, let me hear all those pretty little noises... it's not like this is the first time we've fooled around here."

rafe tried pulling away from your neck, but you tugged him closer by his hair, holding him there as tightly as possible "god, rafe..." you moaned out, the doctor letting out a pleased hum against your skin.

"come on, sweetie... tell me how much you want me to put a baby in you, yeah?"

"so badly..." your back arched off the examination table while rafe's long fingers slid up to your breast, teasing it with small kneads and pinches before his left hand found your hand, your fingers intertwining with his, your matching wedding bands meeting.

"i love you so much... i can't wait for you to be all pretty and pregnant." he smiled against your skin, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

MEANWHILE….

"i wonder what's taking dr. cameron so long..." the receptionist wondered aloud with a frown on her pouty lips, turning to look at the clock on the wall as she tapped her pink fingernails against the desk, "i mean, it's almost lunchtime."

the other receptionist let out a snort, interrupting the movement of the file against her long nail, turning to look at the other girl with raised brows, chewing gum. "what, you don't know?"

"know what?"

"oh, this is good." the receptionist laughed, throwing her head back with laughter in her office chair. "you don't know who she is."

"what?" the other girl asked, huffing in annoyance as she grabbed a cheeto out of the bag sitting in front of them.

"that client is mrs. cameron."

"as in-"

"yup, that was doctor cameron's wife." she let out a loud snort of a laugh as she shook her head, grabbing a cheeto before going back to filing her nails. "guess she gets special treatment."

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

💀 Making Your Villain Make Sense (Without Making Them Right™)

("because if I see one more war criminal with a sad diary entry get a redemption arc, I’m gonna throw my laptop.")

Here’s the thing: your villain doesn’t need to be redeemable. But they do need to make sense.

And I mean sense beyond "they’re evil and they monologue about it." Or “they have a tragic past, so now they do murder <3.” Or “they were right all along, the hero just couldn’t see it 🥺.”

Let’s fix that.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧠 STEP ONE: BUILD A LOGIC SYSTEM THAT ISN’T OURS Your villain shouldn’t just be wrong, they should have their own internal system that works for them. Morally flawed? Absolutely. But coherent.

Ask yourself:

What do they value more than anything? (Power? Order? Loyalty? Vengeance?)

What do they believe about the world, and how did they get there?

What fear drives them? What future do they think they’re trying to prevent?

The villain doesn’t need to know they’re wrong. But you should.

Make their logic airtight. even if it’s awful. Give them cause and effect.

─────── ✦ ───────

👿 STEP TWO: STOP GIVING THEM THE BETTER IDEOLOGY Listen. I love a “morally gray” moment as much as anyone. But if your villain is making all the good points and the hero’s just like “no because that’s mean,” your arc is upside down.

If your villain is critiquing injustice, oppression, or inequality, make sure their methods are the problem, not their entire worldview.

✖︎ WRONG: Villain: “The ruling class is corrupt.” Hero: “That’s not nice.”

✔︎ RIGHT: Villain: “The ruling class is corrupt, so I’m burning the city and everyone in it.” Hero: “So you’re just… committing genocide now?”

Your villain can touch a real issue. Just don’t let them be the only one talking about it, or solving it with horror movie logic.

─────── ✦ ───────

🔪 STEP THREE: GIVE THEM POWER THAT COSTS THEM The best villains lose things too. They’re not just untouchable horror dolls in sexy coats. They make bad choices and pay for them. That’s where the drama lives.

Examples:

They isolate themselves.

They sacrifice people they love.

They get what they want, and it destroys them.

They know they’re the monster, and choose it anyway.

If your villain can kill a dozen people and feel nothing, that’s not scary. That’s boring. Let them bleed. Let them regret it. Let them double down anyway.

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🧱 STEP FOUR: MAKE THEM PART OF THE WORLD, NOT OUTSIDE IT Villains shouldn’t feel like they were patched in from another genre. They should be part of the world’s logic, culture, class system, history. They should reflect something about the setting.

Villains that slap:

The advisor who upheld the regime until they decided they deserved to rule.

The noble who’s using war to reclaim stolen legacy.

The ex-hero who thinks the system can’t be saved, only reset.

The priest who truly believes the gods demand blood.

They’re not just evil, they’re a product of the same world the hero is trying to save.

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👁 STEP FIVE: SHOW US THEIR SELF-JUSTIFICATION You don’t need a tragic backstory™. But you do need to show us why they think they’re right. Not just with exposition, through action.

Let us watch them:

Protect someone.

Choose their goal over safety.

Justify the unjustifiable to a character who loves them.

Refuse to change, even when given a chance.

A villain who looks into the mirror and goes “Yes. I’m correct.” is 1000x scarier than one who sobs into a journal and says “I’m so broken 🥺.”

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🧨 BONUS ROUND: DON’T MAKE THEM A HATRED MEGAPHONE Especially if you’re writing marginalized characters: don’t let your villain become a mouthpiece for slurs, abuse, or extremism just to make them “evil enough.” That’s lazy. And harmful.

You don’t need real-world hate speech to build a dark character. You need power, consequence, and intent.

─────── ✦ ───────

TL;DR: Good villains don’t need to be right. They need to be real. Not a vibe. Not a sad boy in a trench coat. Not a trauma monologue and then a sword fight. They need logic. They need cost. They need to scare you because you get them, and still want them to lose.

Make them dangerous. Not relatable. Make them whole. Not wholesome. Make them make sense.

—rin t. // thewriteadviceforwriters // villain critic. final boss consultant. licensed chaos goblin

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE: